by Molly Goldman
When he falls asleep I know it’s because he’s lying
on the boring side of my face.
I don’t sleep. I crouch inside of myself
and talk gently to the dog that looks like Lassie
who lives in the nighttime stomach.
Her head is tilted sideways like it’s missing
a stitch. What is it, Girl? I follow her
through the wet newspaper tunnel of my intestines.
Someone could be trapped in there.
Is it trouble at the well?
My impulses move like iridescent fruit flies
against a stain glass backdrop. It’s like I’m trespassing
through some hollow church and flinching
at the echo of my footsteps. The stomach
is a jar glowing with swarms of red
candles. Lassie leads me
to a familiar chalkboard in there. Last night,
I stayed late and wrote believe me,
believe me, two hundred times. When the words
are erased I can use the dust to dry everything up.
On the outside, a toothbrush lies
down in the medicine cabinet. A drawer hangs
open like a child peering over a bridge.
The stairs stack themselves in darkness.
